The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (10 page)

17

The Mordant

The Mordant
reverted to his true colors, choosing dark leathers and a cowled cloak of
deepest black. Unlocking his jewel box, he chose his magic with great care.
Fondling rings and armbands glittering with gems, his hand passed over focuses
endowed with soul magic and deceit. Instead, he sought his battle magics,
focuses empowered to attack and defend. Of all the focuses he'd collected over
his many lifetimes, battle magic was the most rare and therefore the most
coveted. His most powerful weapon, the crimson crystal of pain, he fitted to
the prongs atop his iron staff. The staff was designed to evoke the primal fear
of ancient wizards, a showy conceit, yet it seemed appropriate for the
occasion. Tonight, bedecked in glorious Darkness, he'd confront an ancient
foe...and there'd be nothing subtle about it.

"Tell me
again what you saw."

The snargon
knelt before him. "An old man, dressed in robes of brown and leaning on a
quarterstaff. He walked with a swordish man, but it was the old one who smelled
of magic. They parted in front of an apothecary shop. The old man went in and
never came out."

"And what
of his magic."

"Powerful...and
very old."

The Mordant grinned,
another focus for his trove of power. "Good. You've done well, now
come."

The snargon
followed like a well trained hound. Clad in power, the Mordant strode from his
solar to find a hand-picked cadre of assassins and duegars waiting for him.
Wearing dark clothing and bristling with weapons, they bowed low before him.

"Arm your
darts with sleep not death. I want this foe taken alive."

He led them to
the back of the manse, through the kitchen and out into the back alleyway.
Saddled horses waited for them held by grooms. The Mordant mounted a dark
stallion. Setting the butt of his staff in a lance cup, he gestured to begin.
Krugar, a ninth rank assassin, led the small host through the back alleyways at
a swift trot.

Night darkened
the sky, thick clouds shuttering a crescent moon, yet there was light in the
queen's city. Candles, torches and lanterns held the velvety darkness at bay.
The light annoyed the Mordant, as if the queen's city had the audacity to snub
the darkness...but where there was light, there were also shadows, and shadows
he knew very well.

His men
exploited the shadows, weaving a path through the back alleys.

The queen's city
slept, still hours from dawn. As expected, the alleyways proved empty. The
Mordant caught faint whiffs of fresh-baked bread and stoked iron from a nearby
forge, but most of the alleyways stank of piss, sour ale, and rotting refuse.
The queen thought her city better than others, but tossed piss pots reeked the
same no matter the ruler.

A stray cat
bolted in front of his horse.

His stallion
shied. Yanking hard on the bit, the Mordant kept his horse in check.

Unchallenged,
they threaded their way through the honeycombed streets, moving at a steady
trot.

A duegar slipped
from a side alley, whistling a warning.

Pulling his
stallion to a halt, the Mordant dismounted, tossing his reins to a guard.
"How close?"

"The
apothecary is two streets over." The duegar grinned, showing teeth filed
to points. "You can't miss it, my lord. The shop boasts a white unicorn
head carved into the lintel."

"A white
unicorn," the Mordant sneered at the conceit, "as if fairy tales will
save them." He gripped the Staff of Pain, eager for the confrontation.
"And the enemy?"

"All three
are inside. The old one is the one you want. Posing as a master apothecary, he
has pale white hair and a long beard and goes by the name of Master Numar. He's
the only one who reeks of magic."

"And the
other two?"

"Younger
men, posing as apprentices. They look like they could wield a sword...or a
cudgel."

"Nothing my
assassins cannot deal with."

"True, my
lord."

"Aside from
the older monk, have you smelt magic on any of the others?"

"No,
lord...though we've not dared to send a snargon into the shop, lest we warn
them of our presence."

"Anything
else?"

Krugar answered.
"I sent an assassin in last night to scout. Two apprentices sleep in a
small room behind the shop. The master, the one with the magic, sleeps in a
back bedroom."

"The
assassin went undetected?"

"Yes,
lord."

"Good."
The Mordant grinned. "Let's see what type of magic the old man
wields." He gestured to the others. "Come." The Mordant strode
through the empty streets toward the shop, his black cloak swirling behind, his
iron staff in his hand. He relished the coming confrontation, a chance to cower
his enemy with magic. It had been a long time since he'd unleashed his power
against a monk.

A white unicorn
was brazenly carved over the apothecary doorway, as if the mythical creature
could somehow hold Darkness at bay. An assassin stepped from the shadows, his
voice held to a whisper. "Let me do this for you, lord."

"No, the
monk is mine. I want to see his face when we take him, when he realizes he's
met his doom."

Bowing, the
assassin removed a blowpipe from the pouch at his belt. "Guards are posted
at the back in case they try to flee. The front door has a flimsy lock, but a
bell is rigged to ring once it opens."

"Deal with
the lock, then you and Krugar slip inside. Be prepared to take the two younger
men." The Mordant flashed a predator's smile. "Leave the monk to
me."

"And the
bell?"

"It matters
not." The Mordant cast a warning look their way. "Remember, deal
sleep not death. I want them taken alive."

The two
dark-clad assassins prepared their blowpipes and then led the way. Tokar, the
snargon of the duegars who'd tracked the magic user to his lair, stayed close
by the Mordant's side. The first assassin picked the lock, carefully easing the
door open. A cheerful bell rang a gentle greeting. Silent as cats, the
assassins slipped inside. Threading their way to the back of the shop, they
crouched near the rear doorway, lethal shadows lurking for prey.

The Mordant
glided inside. His face hidden in the depths of his cowled robe, he stood still
as Darkness, poised to confront his oldest foe. He held the Staff of Pain in
his right hand, a potent magic waiting to be wielded. The snargon crouched low
by his side. Like a faithful dog, the duegar's nostrils flared wide, sniffing
for magic. The Mordant's gaze roved across the apothecary, everything clean and
orderly. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling, spreading a medicinal aroma of
bayberry and thyme through the shop. Glass jars filled one wall, a long table
ran down the middle, the marble top polished to a shine.

Lantern light
flared to life in the back room. Footsteps walked towards them. "Who's
there?"

A sandy-haired
young man appeared in the far doorway. He took two steps and then the snick of
a blown dart took him in the throat. Issuing a strangled gurgle, he fell
forward. One assassin caught the lantern, carefully setting it aside, while the
other caught the young man. Dragging him away from the doorway, the assassin
stuffed a gag in his mouth and bound his hands.

Lantern light
illumed the shop, casting a buttery glow across countless jars and bottles.

A voice from the
back said, "Simon, who's there?"

The Mordant
chose to answer. "I seek Master Numar on a matter of life and death."

"Just a
moment."

The Mordant
grinned, amazed by the naivety of his foe. Those who dealt in the truth were
always too trusting. While he waited, the Mordant summoned the monk imprisoned
within the depths of his mind.
*Come and witness how I deal with one of your
precious masters.*
He felt the monk quaking in terror, sauce to his
pleasure.

A second light
flared in the back followed by more footsteps. An older man appeared in the
doorway. Clad in a soft brown robe, his face bore the wrinkles of age, his pale
white hair cascading below his shoulders, his beard long and tangled, but his
blue eyes flashed sharp and keen. "Who asks for me?"

In the depths of
the Mordant's mind, the captured monk screamed an impotent warning.

The snargon
hissed at the scent of magic.

The Mordant
summoned the Darkness within. He felt his presence grow, as if mortal bonds
could not contain his power. His cowl slipped back. A thousand years of evil
spilled from his gaze. The crystal in the Staff of Pain awakened, glowing a
malevolent red. "Do you not know me?"

The monk
flinched backwards. "
You!"

"I've come
to claim my due."

The monk reached
for the pocket of his robe. "
Gideon, run!"

The snargon
hissed in warning.

The Mordant
pointed his staff at the monk. Loosing a bolt of pain, he imagined a dragon's
talon slicing into the monk's stomach, rending flesh, ripping bone, inflicting
a terrible agony... and then he willed it to be so.

The monk
crumpled to the floor, his face contorted in agony. He gripped his stomach as
if seeking to contain his entrails.

A man bearing a
cudgel appeared in the doorway. "
Master!"
Rage twisting his
face, he leaped to the attack, but the assassins dealt with him. Darts struck
the young man in the face and throat, toppling him backwards.

The Mordant kept
his will focused on the monk. Deepening the torture, he tightened the dragon's
talons, twisting and pulling, imagining intestines ripping like white worms.
"Where is your blade bearer? Where is your vaunted champion?"

Pale-faced with
pain, his brow beaded with sweat, the monk grimaced, refusing to speak.

"In every
lifetime, you send a champion against me, but always he fails. Where is he this
time? What guise does he wear? Who wields the crystal dagger?"

The monk
convulsed across the floor, but he did not answer.

The Mordant
redoubled the agony. "For a thousand years I've waited for this lifetime,
for all the pieces to fall into place. This hour is mine. Feel my power, feel
my wrath!"

The monk
screamed.

"I shall
make a gorelabe of your flesh. The dregs of your soul shall serve me and your
magic shall be mine!"

"
Never!"
The monk spat the word. Thrashing across the floor, he grimaced against the
agony. "
You...shall...not...win!"
Yanking his right hand from
his pocket, the monk punched his fist toward the Mordant. A fireball appeared.

A fireball!

Growing in size,
the fireball hurtled towards the Mordant, a sizzling ball of death.

The Mordant had
but one heartbeat to react. Reaching for the focus binding his right forearm,
he yelled a command. "
Nullo!"

The fireball
struck. Heat raged against his face, fierce as a forge. The fireball punched
the Mordant backwards, like being struck by a Taal's fist. His head hammered
the wall, hitting hard. Pain bludgeoned him.
Not possible!
The Mordant struggled
to remain conscious, but Darkness claimed him, the smell of burnt flesh
sizzling the air.

18

The Mordant

The pained
dulled and the Mordant awoke. An ugly-faced duegar crouched beside him, peering
into his face, his breath foul. "My lord, you live!"

Anger spiked
through the Mordant. "Of course I live!" He found himself crumpled
against the wall. His head ached but otherwise he seemed unharmed. The Mordant
took stock of his surroundings.
Stink of burnt flesh and charred wood,
and
then he remembered.
A fireball!
Tightening his fist on the Staff of
Pain, the Mordant climbed to his feet. Leaning on the staff, he surveyed the
damage. Not a smudge on his dark robes...but the shop was another matter.
Timbers were blackened and burned, jars melted to glass puddles. The apothecary
shop was burnt to a husk, a testimony to the fireball's fierce heat. Small
flames still sputtered amongst the dried herbs. Charred walls reflected a
glowing warmth. The fireball had scorched the shop to a blackened ruin.
A
fireball!
His defensive spell had worked, shielding himself and the snargon
crouched by his side, forcing the fireball back on its maker.
Its maker.

The Mordant
crossed the charred expanse, the crisped floorboards crunching beneath his
boots. The hot stench of burnt flesh answered his question. Five charred corpses
lay crumpled on the floor. Their skin blackened and burnt, they oozed a foul
pink fluid, proof the monk had died by his own magic.

The Mordant
snapped his fingers, summoning the snargon. "Find the focus." He
pointed to the monk's charred corpse. "I want the fireball."

Tokar knelt,
sniffing the corpse, like a pig rooting for truffles. Three times he sniffed
the corpse from foot to head. His voice reluctant, he cowered to the floor.
"Nothing, lord."

Anger erupted in
the Mordant. "It must be there! Pry open his fist."

The monk's right
hand was seared to a charred knob. The snargon pried at the blackened fingers.
Two broke, leaking more foul fluid, but he got the hand open, revealing a small
metal disc.

The Mordant
yearned to snatch it up but he had the good sense to wait. Caution was
advisable when it came to new-found magic. "Sniff it."

Tokar held the
disc to his nose, his nostrils flaring wide. The small man cringed.
"Nothing, lord. The magic is dead...or fled."

The Mordant
extended his hand. The snargon yielded the focus, cautiously placing it in his
lord's hand and then retreating to crouch near the monk's corpse, as if he
preferred the dead to the living. The Mordant studied the focus. A small brass
disc inset with a quartz crystal, faint rune marks scribed around the edge. At
its heart, the crystal was shattered, blackened as if the fireball had consumed
its magic, burnt from within. The Mordant refused to be foiled. Magic was the
ultimate prize...and he wanted the fireball. Locking his fist around the small
disc, he willed the magic to waken, but the focus remained dormant. Anger
sizzled through him. His gaze snapped to the snargon. "Tell me what you
saw."

Tokar cowered
low. "The monk writhed in pain, smitten by your dread magic, but then I
smelled the way his own magic flared, hot and potent. The monk's fist shot out
and he hurled a fireball.
A fireball,
a terrible burning orb the height
of a man. The heat was hellish." The snargon shuddered. "I thought I
was dead, but you, great lord, you summoned a shield of magic." Tokar
sketched the sign of Darkness, his voice fervent with awe. "The fireball struck,
throwing you backwards, but your shield held, refusing the flames. Repulsed,
the fireball rebounded, flying backwards it scorched everything in its path.
The monk, the assassins, everything consumed by flames. Scorched to char, the
monk died by his own magic." The snargon prostrated himself before the
Mordant. "Your magic is superior. You wield the magic of the gods."
He kissed the Mordant's boots. "You saved me, dread lord."

"No, I did
not." The Mordant loosed his anger, unleashing the Staff of Pain.

Tokar gasped,
assaulted by a searing agony. Writhing on the floor, he gazed up at the
Mordant, his voice a harsh croak. "Why?"

The Mordant
intensified the pain, pouring his anger into the small man. Screaming, the
snargon's heels thrashed the floor, his back nearly bent double. Froth appeared
at his mouth. He clawed at his own throat, his eyes bulging wide and wild. The
snargon convulsed...and then lay dead, his open eyes becoming vacant.

"You saw
too much." The Mordant placed the fireball focus deep in his pocket next
to the malachite coin. Turning, he glided from the ruined shop. Three assassins
and two duegars came running like hounds called to the whistle.

Clavis was the
first to reach him. The young assassin bowed low. "My lord, how can I
serve?"

"Have the
guards bring the horses. I want a snargon to search the shop for magic, then
remove the duegar's corpse. Leave no evidence save the dead bodies of our
enemies."

Clavis hovered
at the shop's entrance, his nostrils flared wide at the burnt stench. "Flames
roared through the shop...we feared none survived." The assassin's voice
held a thousand questions.

"The monk
angered me, so I burnt him with a fireball."

The assassin's
eyes flew wide, awe tinged with a healthy fear.

"Leave the
charred bodies as a lesson to my enemies."

Clavis bowed
low. "Yes, dread lord."

The horses
arrived and the Mordant swung up into the saddle. Putting spurs to his mount,
he galloped through the sleeping city. In his mind, he weighed his encounter
with the monks, a stalemate of sorts. His age-old enemy had evaded capture and
inquisition, yet the monk paid for his escape with his very life, charred to a
blackened crisp by his own magic. And the fireball focus that should have been
the Mordant's...appeared to be ruined. Yet with a single lie, the Mordant
gained the upper hand, usurping the fear of the fireball by claiming it was his
own. He'd gained the fear but not the power. A snarl rose in his throat. In
truth, he wanted both. Rumors of his fell powers would spread like wildfire
through his own men, bolstering their loyalty...but he'd gained no information,
and he'd lost a valuable focus.
A fireball!
He hadn't seen such power
wielded in centuries. More proof the monks dared to meddle, entering the Great
Dark Dance. Perhaps the blue-robed monks were not as impotent as he thought.
Anger surged through him, he'd make the monks pay for this. His legions would
ransack their precious monastery, putting every blue-robed monk to the sword.
He'd work his will on Lanverness and then he'd ride to their mountain
sanctuary, claiming their magic. If the monks dared to let a fireball focus wander
below the mountains, what did they keep hidden in their secret vaults? Tantalized
by the possibilities, the Mordant laughed, anticipating the power that would
soon be his. All of Erdhe would cower before him...and he would rule for forevermore.